


Religious Ecstasy

by PoppyAlexander



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Dom!Sherlock, Dom/sub Undertones, Foot Fetish, Foot Jobs, Jewelry, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Playful Dom/sub Dynamic, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sub!John, Symbolic Bondage, This Is Such a Dom/sub Pretzel I Can't Even Describe It, foot worship, toe sucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-06
Updated: 2018-01-06
Packaged: 2019-03-01 01:41:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13284258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander
Summary: John worships Sherlock's feet.





	Religious Ecstasy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AVeryPlumPlum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AVeryPlumPlum/gifts).



> I want to say it was Plum (?) who prompted this like two years ago with "John sucks Sherlock's toes until he is just *frantic*."

_Fingertips digging into leather, damp with palm-sweat. A penny balancing on the back of each hand to keep him still and focused—a cunning, gentle sort of bondage. Lips pursed shut between his teeth, breath in hard gusts through flaring nostrils, the bellows of his chest expanding and collapsing as he pants. Thighs quivering—not entirely new, but rare—cock oozing, heartbeating, utterly raging. Half-closed eyes falling shut now and then as they roll back, but he wants to see, has to see, can’t stop looking._

_A naked, willing supplicant. Strong-shouldered, murmuring, sometimes smiling. Mouth open and hot and just wet enough. That teasing tongue he can’t keep in his mouth, those lips that form words like, “worship you,” “be still,” “anything,” “hush now and let me,” and those prettily-fringed, night-blue eyes now and then looking up, wide with awe, sparking affection, self-satisfied. He is kneeling there, at Sherlock’s feet, and Sherlock—crackling-electric with ecstasy—is trying not to shatter._

“I’ve brought you something.”

A pretty little footstool with elegantly turned legs, slim ankles, clawed toes, its cushion button-tufted velvet in a whorish tone of “royal” purple. He places it, just so, brushes off imaginary dust. He is on one knee. They are still dressed. It is just gone dusk.

“Did you steal it from a bordello?”

“Well deduced. Had to murder a pimp to get it.”

“I bet you say that to all the boys.”

He bows his head modestly, half-smiling, and his hair is petted in gratitude.

“Tell me.”

“Dressing gown. The wine-coloured one. Jewelry? If you like.”

A particular cushion is in easy reach and he arranges it beside the stool, settles onto it, both knees now, smoothes his hands across the surface of the purple velvet.

“I’ll be here.”

And there he is indeed—now undressed—kneeling on the flat, round cushion beside the pretty little footstool, upon which glint two like-new pennies and a folded length of dark rough-faced satin. He offers a hand, helps Sherlock settle onto his chair, and once he is comfortable, John gently grasps him at the elbow and wrist, settles his forearms on the chair’s arms, palms down. He takes up the pennies, holds one up so Sherlock can see.

“Just to hone your focus.”

Sherlock smiles in spite of himself, a knowing smile, and appreciative; John is a genius, in ways Sherlock never got to see, or even imagine, in that time before. John’s sensual creativity is seemingly limitless, each twinkling-eyed suggestion— _there’s something I think we should try_ —distilled from his vast general knowledge of sexual derring-do and married with facts in evidence (gooseflesh; sharp intakes of breath; low, ecstatic groaning; enthusiastic facial expressions conveyed primarily with eyebrows) is its own brilliant sort of deduction. In all this time, he has never once been wrong. And so Sherlock’s hands are placed palms down and the pennies laid upon the back of each hand, and, _yes, of course_ , the slight, distracting concentration required to keep them from slipping stills him, and focuses him inward.

John offers the blindfold—eliminating sensory input sometimes helps Sherlock stay present and grounded—but Sherlock declines it and knows he has made the correct choice, for John looks pleased as he lays the wide ribbon aside. A quick drag of John’s palms down the front of Sherlock’s body, sliding over the silk dressing gown from shoulders to waist to thighs to knees, and then both sturdy palms encircle one of Sherlock’s calves and slip down toward his ankle, then around to cup a heel in one hand, his arch and instep in the other. John delicately raises first one foot, then the other, onto the stool, then draws a long breath, sighs it out, just gazing.

“Absolutely gorgeous,” he murmurs.

Sherlock has dressed his recently-pedicured and always pampered feet with delicate jewelry John chose for him with care— _beauty like this should only be enhanced, never distracted from_ —filigreed chains of rose gold, the links impossibly tiny and fine, bearing cream-coloured pearls at intervals. One strand high around his ankle, resting just above the jut of bone, and another, lower one, from which dangles a wide, woven confection, chainlink and pearls in a ribbon-like strand down to a slim loop of chain around the base of his second toe. There is a matching ring on each fourth toe, of etched rose gold. The commissioning of these precious adornments set John back his entire share of the Blackfriars case, plus half of what he’d earned when they’d fetched back the loot from an art heist. He looks as pleased with the presentation now as he had when he’d first insisted Sherlock close his eyes, and fixed the jewelry reverently in place on Sherlock’s bare ankles and insteps.

He checks that Sherlock is comfortable by laying a hand on his knee, and Sherlock makes one slight adjustment, pushing the footstool just half a foot farther away from his chair, and John rises just long enough to press a kiss to Sherlock’s lips before he kneels again;  the mere sight of him there conjures an ache low in Sherlock’s pelvis. John says the words, then.

“May I?”

“Yes.”

And there knelt, John curls his palms and fingers around the backs of Sherlock’s ankles, and he bows until his forehead rests on Sherlock’s insteps, and Sherlock’s blood shimmers rose gold inside his veins; he is warm and languid, settled and still.

John’s fingers slide along the outer edges of Sherlock’s long feet, heels to little toes, and then sweep beneath the balls of his feet, raising them just that finger’s width above the purple velvet, and Sherlock watches, feels one corner of his mouth curling up the slightest bit. Whether he—or either gangly foot—is worthy of worship remains to be seen, but when one is treated with the reverence John Watson currently exudes, one can’t but feel just the slightest bit ego-stroked. John’s thumbs dip beneath the spill of pearls resting atop Sherlock’s feet, and he sweeps them in semi-circles, gently massaging back and forth, fingers squeezing into the sharp-sloped arches beneath. There is the finest, barely-there click of pearls against thumbnails, and Sherlock’s lips part and his breath comes quicker even as he melts. His eyes flick to the pennies resting on the backs of his hands.

Delicate tracing and pulling of each long toe between thumb and forefinger, maddening slow, a gentle stretch and release, and John hums quietly, as if this—just this—is delicious. Fingernail edges scritch and drag in among the few wiry, dark hairs on the knuckles of Sherlock’s big toes, and it is exquisite, an itch he hadn’t realised needed attending, and to feel the hair rearranged, directed the wrong way, creates a tiny scattershot burst of jolting heat; Sherlock’s entire attention is laser-pointed upon those minute patches of skin, and his prick twitches in itchy sympathy.

He must have made a sound; John meets his gaze with raised eyebrows.

“Feels good?”

Sherlock nods, hums.

John bows down again, and with the tip of that busy tongue, flicks the never-touched, sensitive skin between those tiny hairs. Sherlock sucks air across his teeth at the sheer sensual shock of it, and the cool inhalation of breath skates straight down through him, makes waves in his low belly that rush blood to his cock, which warms and thickens.

Puckered, sucking lip-edges caress the tip of each big toe in turn, and then the two are guided close as the tonguetip dips out from between those nimble lips to flick and tickle—Sherlock flinches with a soft, helpless noise behind his nose, but the pennies stay put—and then John’s tongue swipes and swirls around the very tips of both toes, in the shape of a heart. His finger and thumb slip-slide one of the slender toe-rings up and down the length of Sherlock’s next-to-last toe, a suggestion Sherlock does not miss, and he tugs his lip between his teeth.

A trail of kisses—biting, tongue-skimming—along the lacy inner edge of the bejeweled web of filigree chain, following the shape of a prominent tendon, and then the nuzzling of his nose and greedy-open mouth in the sensitive, aching arch of Sherlock’s foot. Sherlock whimpers and John whispers, “Shh. . .” probably knowing it is now inevitably more taunt than hush.

“You—” Sherlock protests, but John has returned to cradling Sherlock’s feet in his hands, handling them like delicate, exotic fruits.

“Beautiful,” John breathes, and the breath seeps in between the pearl beads, warm and sweet. Sherlock’s bollocks tighten and rise.

There is a flicker in his radiant, awe-filled expression as he anguishes over which to choose, but at last John hones his focus onto his favourite, curls fingers across the backs of five long, narrow toes, brushing, grooming, and curves his index finger beneath, thumb counter-balanced above, like a gentleman taking a lady’s offered hand to kiss it, and kiss he does.

A fingertip slips between just enough to make space, and then John’s lick-slicked lips come open around the tip of Sherlock’s little toe, and close warm and wet, tongue sweeping, and then he sucks. And sucks. Draws deeper, pulls tighter. Sucks. Sucks.

Sherlock’s sigh is brittlely split as it spills out over his drying tongue; his breathing is harsh, hyper and struggling to be still and be adored. So utterly. . .

Sucks. And then his tongue. Sucks hard and _p u l l s_. . .

. . . _utterly_ adored. Sherlock’s fingers worry the leather arms of the chair.

John drags himself loose, clicks a tiny kiss to the very point of the cool-damp toe, and moves to the next. His fingers between, spreading Sherlock’s toes apart to make room for John’s mouth, are a gentle invasion of a surprisingly vulnerable space. Sherlock is intensely aware of the thinness of the skin there in the curving web, how un-used he is to having it touched at all, nevermind by the hot and strong tongue that presses in, strumming and flicking. As it is withdrawn, Sherlock sucks his teeth. John sucks his toe.

The rose gold ring clicks against the edges of John’s teeth; he worries it a bit, gets a grip and slides it down, then drags it up. Licks a trail around to trace it, and presses it into place, then forces his tongue up beneath, flat and firm, and sucks and sucks and sucks and sucks. His fingers find the knobby bones of Sherlock’s ankle and caress the valleys beneath even as he sucks and sucks.  Sherlock wants to slap his hand over his own mouth, but there are the pennies so he has no choice but to let the moan go, and though he tries to bite it back, John gives a gentle nod even as he quick-sucks and slides down, then back, and away, and licks his lips.

John looks up then, eyes alight, and he smiles. “You wondrous being,” he says, playing for laughs, but it resonates in both of them, Sherlock above and John below, and lower, which suits them. “May I go on?”

“Yes.”

“Are you pleased?”

“God yes.” Sherlock tries for a smile but he is becoming desperate.  John strokes the length of his second toe with the tip of his second finger.

Again the fingers maneuvering between feel foreign, sweetly irritating, and Sherlock is so intent on it he is shocked when John takes his two longest toes into his mouth both at once, tracing the seam between them with his tongue before rocking his jaw to put them just where he wants them and beginning to suck, quick and shallow, a tease, a hummingbird flutter, barely sucking, only barely.

“Christ! _John!”_

John hums pleased acknowledgement and goes on sucking gently on two toes together, his lips brushing the fine chain that winds around Sherlock’s second toe to keep his jewelry in place. Sherlock’s cockhead drips and oozes, standing at full attention and pulsing with need. John licks the bulb of Sherlock’s second toe, and his tongue snaking into that articulate space makes Sherlock grind his thumbs into the arm of the chair. The muscles of his lower abdomen tense and tighten as if to draw him away from John’s ministrations and he draws his lips in between his teeth, panting hard through his nostrils; it is a struggle to what he is sure is his own imminent death just to keep still enough not to let the pennies drop.

John sets the edges of his lower teeth against the pad of Sherlock’s big toe and with crazymaking slowness scrapes inward, falling into the gap behind the knuckle, all the way down the length until he can close his teeth down as if he will bite the whole thing right off. But of course he never would. John curls a hand around Sherlock’s foot, to feel the delicate texture of fine chains and smooth pearls, to mash the tips of his strong, gentle fingers into Sherlock’s sole, and he sucks Sherlock’s toe, and licks it, and nips it and kisses it and sucks it again, more, sucks and sucks, stops sucking to groan, hums as he sucks, and Sherlock watches him there on his knees, surrendered and supplicant.

“Finish me,” Sherlock demands, though in truth he wants to beg. He is frantic with need, more powerfully aroused than he has been even walloping John’s arse with his crop; even tying him in the prettiest of knots; even bending him over and invading him with fingers, implements, the cock which just now is dark pink and with a slick trail down the side from his fast-running desire. “For god’s sake, man, finish me now.”

John sighs contentment, gives a last, lingering pull up the full length of Sherlock’s big toe, and with quick efficiency gathers Sherlock’s feet to rest in one of his palms. He shoves the vulgar, lovely footstool out of the way, shuffles forward on his knees—on his _knees_ , there is no sight more erotic in the world than John Watson on his knees—and settles Sherlock’s feet on the tops of his thighs even as his own hands slide up and between to spread Sherlock’s thighs apart, his long legs butterfly-winged so that John can reach him. One hand steadies Sherlock’s prick as John licks his lips, and his other hand guides Sherlock’s foot. As John slides his mouth down on Sherlock’s cock, he begins to rock in time, holding Sherlock’s foot in place so that his prick slides against it, and he sucks, opens, slides and sucks and  p u l l s. . .

The pennies slip and drop and Sherlock’s long body curls forward as he reaches for John’s head, guiding, nearly forcing, and John hums a groan around him and Sherlock is shuddering heat from his belly to the back of his neck, his chest bright and burning, fingers tingling in the roots of John’s hair, toes damp and wriggly, to put John out of his misery. But no, to lift him into his ecstasy.

“Take it,” Sherlock commands, and John burbles and sucks, swallows, swirls his tongue, wraps up Sherlock’s foot and his prick in his fist and pumps them together, his hips thrusting hard, until he drops back with a shout, his mouth wide with pleasure, eyes shut and eyebrows rising as if in surprise. It’s beautiful beyond description, though Sherlock will spend most of the rest of the evening whispering inadequate words into John’s hair and the back of his neck, so compelled is he to try.


End file.
